Fort Worth Doesn't Like Sex Shops, Prefers Its Lovemaking Dry, Missionary, and Joyless

First of all, if being a regional media mogul ever stops paying the bills and I have to start slingin' sex jellies and anal beads from some low-rent mall kiosk, there's no question I would've called it the Velvet Box. Guess I'll have to go with runners-up Satan's Doorbell or The Whisperin' Eye.

At any rate, tough break for Fort Worth here. It's bad enough being the forgotten little brother of D/FW, but if you do get laid, you're telling everybody that your partner didn't enjoy it. I'm not saying everyone needs to incorporate ball gags and love swings, especially while drunk and accident-prone, but how about at least slippin' into some skimpy, lacy number that's sexier than a faded, over-sized Mickey Mouse T-shirt, sweetheart? Not to mention a little something to lube the gaskets a bit before a long ride, for safety's sake. Marcelle knows it, and so do all dried-up love tunnels everywhere. How about the poor bastards who end up home alone on Saturday night and have to drive to Bedford to pick up their FleshLight like freakin' losers? While the rest of the Metroplex is slaying the Kama Sutra, Fort Worth is fumbling to find the right hole in the dark.